


Sliver

by meltokio



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Fluff, For once in my sinful life, shameless shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 23:41:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10864563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meltokio/pseuds/meltokio
Summary: “Even the furniture here is malicious.”





	Sliver

She follows the trail of multi-lingual cursing. First in Elvhen, then Tevene, a string in Common Parlance for good measure. Hawke sets aside the broom in her hands, grateful to have a reason to do so (Fenris’s mansion wouldn’t benefit from a bit of light cleaning–it needed an exorcism, but she’d volunteered her services anyway). On the threshold between the main hall and the study, holding his right hand palm up and brooding, is Fenris, casting shadows against the wall from the subtle glow of his markings.

He doesn’t turn to acknowledge her, only grunts as he tries desperately to pick something out of the heel of his hand.

“Why are we cursing so fluently?” She leans, arms crossed, against the wall–then winces when she spares a thought to what’s accumulated there after years of negligence.

“I…was attempting to put this book on this shelf and was punished for my efforts.” He shakes his injured hand at said shelf, as angry as he’d be if it’d smacked him round the face. “Even the furniture here is malicious.”

And Hawke can see why. What had once been a bookshelf is now a ruin, on its last legs and threatening collapse. How he’s managed to stack one piece of parchment let alone nine books on it is a marvel. It wouldn’t be the first time Fenris overcame insurmountable odds.

“That shelf is rubbish. You should just throw it out – ”

He turns that storm-cloud stare to her. “And where would I put my books? On the floor?”

As if to suggest such would be a grave insult. Hawke swallows down a bark of laughter and settles for an incredulous grin. “Maker forbid…”

She kicks off the wall, half-expecting her shirt to stick and blissfully amazed that it doesn’t, and moves toward him. She holds out her hand, waits for his pride to dictate when it is acceptable to welcome help. He makes a noise in the back of his throat and concedes, baring the cause of his frustration.

The tiniest splinter Hawke’s ever seen. It takes every bit of her minuscule reserve of self control not to roll her eyes. Instead she pulls a knife from her belt, presses it against the splinter, and squeezes until it’s free. She flicks it away and smoothes her thumb across his palm. Hawke gently pulls his hand closer, brushing her lips against the scene of the crime.

When she looks up, she finds his expression softened. She doesn’t drop his hand. “There. Better?”


End file.
